


My Son, Superman

by AlannaofRoses



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 23:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6587713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlannaofRoses/pseuds/AlannaofRoses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martha can't believe her son is gone. Yes, she had worried about him, but she had never believed this would actually happen. Superman was supposed to be indestructible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Son, Superman

**Author's Note:**

> I love Martha and Clark's relationship. It's so nice to have a superhero with a living parental figure. 
> 
> This is not officially connected with 'A Little More Time', though you could certainly read it that way. 
> 
> Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

When Martha Kent hears the news, her first instinct is to laugh. Clark is Superman. He is indestructible. You can’t kill Superman.

Her second instinct is to scream, because she has already lost a husband, and goddammit she’s not ready to lose her son too.

She had gotten used to him being gone. Even before he had found the ship, found his people, he had been a wanderer. Zod, as terrible and destructive as he had been, had given Clark a purpose. Superman became a hero, a savior, and her big-hearted boy had answered that call as best he could.

She stares down at the body. He is still in his suit, the red cloak spread beneath him. Lois and the two warrior had given her this moment, a brief respite before the task of preparing him would come. She touched his cold cheek. His beautiful face was undamaged, peaceful even.  His chest is a gory mess, and she tried not to think about how much a wound of that size would have _hurt_.

She had so rarely seen Clark in physical pain. Thanks to his Kryptonian biology, she had never had the scraped knees and pinches fingers that others mothers kissed and bandaged. Even when he had cried- from heartbreak or loss- it had typically been silent tears, hot against her shoulder as she held him. Her gut twisted at the thought of him screaming as he died.

There was a military funeral for Superman in D.C., attended by hundreds of mourners. In a small town in Kansas called Smallville, Clark Kent was laid to rest in his Sunday best. A few dozen townspeople: Pete, Lana, the neighbors. Lois, of course. Martha was glad for her presence. The fiery reporter had lost some of her spark in the sad drone of days since Clark’s death, but Martha found comfort in having her there. The two of them had understood Clark the best, and she considered Lois like a daughter.

Bruce Wayne was a solid bulk in her house, lingering in corners and shadows. She found some security in his broad, muscular presence, so like and yet so unlike her son. He didn’t say much, but he helped wherever he could. She could read the guilt in his eyes.

Days passed. Weeks. Then months. She had quit the diner after learning Clark had left her everything. While it wasn’t much, it was enough to live comfortably. She had tried to give some to Lois, but the younger woman would hear none of it. So Martha spent her days cooking for one, tending her garden, and walking to Clark’s grave daily. She would sit beside him for hours, telling him of her day. She talked about her plants, about Lois’ adventures, about Bruce-who had started showing up on Sundays with a tin of baked goods and willing hands. He had fixed a whole list of things that she would never have gotten around to on her own, and Martha was starting to look forward to his visits.

She placed her hand on the stone marker. ‘The Man of Steel’, they had called her son. In many ways, they were right. Once Clark had adjusted to Earth’s atmosphere, he had been the picture of health. But he had been so fragile, too. A soft word or gentle smile would open him up like a flower to the sun. A harsh word or angry gesture would cut him to the quick. Martha knew the world had never seen that side of Clark. Few had, and she counted herself lucky.

Clark was so special, and Martha couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that he was gone. In the end, she was rather grateful she didn’t.

It was another Tuesday, or Wednesday. She could never remember what day it was. (After of course, it will be burned into her memory forever, but for now it is just another day without Clark.) She slipped into her shoes and coat and made her way to the little cemetery. The leaves crunched underfoot, and the sky had that crisp, staticky feeling of late autumn.

The earthquake caught her by surprise.

She toppled over, her hands stinging from the impact with the rough ground. The earth heaved, and she cowered low in the dirt, her breath coming quick and frantic. Dust swirled in the wind, biting her cheeks.

Finally, the ground stilled. She waited a moment before uncurling slowly. She was trembling, her legs unsteady. She hovered for a second in indecision. With a firm nod of her head, she continued towards Clark.

The sight of his grave horrified her. The earth was rent by a huge gash, fresh dirt spilling over the headstones. Clark’s grave had been torn open, as if a giant hand had scooped it out. Martha let out a cry, rushing forward.

A few steps later, she came to a screeching halt. At the sound of her cry, a figure had lifted his head. He was crouched by the open gravesite, covered in the same dark filth that was spewed across the grass. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a messy tangle of dark curls.

Curls that Martha had carded her hand through, time and time again, to soothe a little boy who held the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Clark?”

It was a whisper, but he heard her all the same. His beautiful face lit up in a grin, and then he was before her, alive and whole and still dressed in the suit they had buried him in.

She laughed and cried all at once, reaching for her little boy. He held her, letting her sob into his chest, murmuring apologies and reassurances into her ear.

Hours later, Martha sat on the couch, her head on Clark’s shoulder. He had washed and changed, and she could almost imagine he had never been gone.

She had known, in the end. You just couldn’t kill her Superman.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please read and review!


End file.
